Whist
by Feste the Fool
Summary: Watson wasn't shot in the leg, or the shoulder. He was shot in the chest, almost straight through the heart. He was supposed to die. He would have died, too, if not for a little intervention. He has the Death Hound to prove it. Changeling!Watson, Siren!NotAppearingInThisPicture!Holmes verse.


**Going back in time now, to bring you a small bit of backstory on Whist, the amazing and incredible shape-shifting Black Angus Death Hound. While stories, folktales, and superstitions exist about death hounds and grims and Black Anguses and the like, I've brought some of my own imagination into the mix, making for not-quite-authentic lore, but hopefully great storytelling, which is what every writer ought to shoot for in the end. Also, whist is a card game, and Scottish slang for "shut up." Once again, this is supposed to be just a bit on the vague side. **

**And don't forget to review! Arty Diane and I'm Nova, thanks for your reviews, and you've given me the jolt needed to finish the fourth installment. Hooray!**

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When Watson finally awoke coherent for the first time since Maiwand, he found himself staring at his death.

His eyes grew wider as he stared, not daring to take his gaze away for an instant, not even to blink. It seemed to understand that in blinked enough for the both of them.

It chuffed, making him jump. The chuff seemed almost as if it were meant to be reassuring. It didn't work—Watson remained as stiff as a board, waiting in dread to hear another sound, any other sound. It shook its head as if to call him a fool and lay down next to the cot with a weary sigh. A moment later, it was snoring.

Watson breathed deliberately, relaxing only enough to take stock of his surroundings. It was dark and he couldn't make out much, even from the dimly lit lamps. It must be night. His fingers itched and pricked alternately, his healing prints bearing the brunt of the discomfort. A field hospital, then, with the injured and dying all around him. The cot was uncomfortable, his arm was strapped to his chest, and he smelled blood. It was confirmed, then. A field hospital.

Come to mention it, his arm _was_ strapped to his chest. This confused him. His shoulder hurt, which confused him more. His head buzzed. He'd been drugged? Morphine, maybe?

There was a death omen by his cot—he was dying.

The death omen was silent—he was already dead?

_What happened?_ He remembered pushing someone out of the way. A sharp, white-hot pain in his chest. A fuzzy feeling of hot sand, hotter sun, hottest blood, before cold, ghostly, icy fingers reaching _inside of him…_

A wave of pain and nausea overtook him in the memories and he gasped softly. Something on the _other_ side of the cot jerked. "You're awake," muttered a gruff voice. The lamp was turned up, just a little, and Watson could make out an unshaved, almost familiar face. "How are you feeling, Doctor?"

"There's a Black Dog by my cot," he whispered hoarsely in response, lips cracking and bleeding.

The voice chuckled. "Yes, it scared me as well. I was afraid we'd pulled you out of the fire for nothing."

The voice and face registered at last. "Murray?" The face nodded, lifting a canteen to his superior's lips. Watson swallowed a few gulps. "Where are we? What happened to me?"

"We're at the base hospital in Peshawar, and you saved my life, sir. You got yourself shot in the chest for your troubles, too." He made Watson drink a little more before setting the canteen aside. "You were bleeding out on the horse. Delirious. Started mumbling all kinds of things…You called for your Godmother."

Watson winced. He was grateful, so grateful, for getting the chance to befriend Murray, who had been around the fair folk all his life. He had not even blinked with he discovered his assigned officer was a Changeling and had covered for him every full moon without fail. The man was a godsend. But even after eight months of swapping stories and commiseration, it _bothered_ Watson to hear someone mention his secrets so casually. "She came?" he asked, voice even weaker.

Murray nodded. "She came, all right. The pretty one—fair face, very pale blue skin, cornflower hair?"

_"Niele_," he muttered, taking another slow breath. "What did she do?"

"Reached right into your chest and moved the bullet. I think she wrapped a bullet-stop around your heart, too." Murray hesitated. "She…uh…moved the bullet…into your shoulder. I…I think the Dog is _yours._"

Watson closed his eyes a moment, then opened them, looking down at the beast. It was so large that even laying down as it was, Watson could have reached out and stroked the ruff on its shoulders if he'd wanted to. He didn't want to. "A Black Angus? A Would-Have-Died?"

Murray shrugged. "It's the only option I can see. He certainly made enough noise when we first got in here. At you, though? Not a peep. Won't leave you alone, but not a peep."

Watson shifted to get a better look and winced. Murray pushed him back into bed in a firmly-but-gently way that made Watson _sure_ he was going to make a good doctor someday. "Not a single move out of you, Sir. You're not out of the woods just yet. There's a big chance of fever. You know how bullet-stops make people sick."

"She ruined my arm, didn't she?" Watson asked, breathless, feeling the pains in his shoulder for the first time.

Murray winced and nodded, knowing there was no way he could sugarcoat it. "I'm sorry, sir. If I had known—"

"She would have killed you if you interfered." He laid a tentative right hand on the sore spot, trying to draw the pain into his fingertips. They twitched and glowed, but the pain did not diminish. "Niele doesn't like to share."

"I'd watch the glowing fingers if I were you," his orderly said, gaze darting to the left and right. "Not everyone is as understanding as I am, and some of these people are still awake."

Watson chuckled roughly and winced. "Sorry. Forgot where I was."

The Dog rolled over and sighed in its sleep. Both men glanced at it, the tension in their eyes almost tangible. "I keep expecting it to turn on me," Murray admitted, voice shaking. "It's going to take a lot of time to get used to him."

"I'll probably be discharged before you have the chance," Watson said with a cough. "_Him?"_

Murray offered him the canteen again. "Well, all Death Hounds are male, after all, and he is yours. If you'd rather not have him stalk you all over creation, he'll need a name. How about Lion?"

"He looks more like a wolf or a bear." Watson drank. "Are you certain you're not used to him already?"

He shrugged, eyes sparkling. "What about Fido or Rover?"

The doctor snorted and winced, hand going to his shoulder. "Don't make me laugh. Maybe I should call him Shadow. Heavens knows he'll act like one. Have you ever seen anyone with a Hound before?"

"Yes, my cousin. She would have died of scarlet fever, but I called in a favor. She loves that beast like it was her child. Calls him Biscuit."

Watson grimaced. "I'm guessing she asked it to be a lap dog?"

"Yes, but the point is she _enjoys_ life with it. Although it does seem odd to get attached to something that's just going to rip you apart later."

Watson grimaced again. "Please, Murray."

"Sorry, sir."

The Dog woke suddenly, standing and looking around. Both men paled, watching him as he turned his attention to the door. A moment later, two aids came in, bearing another soldier on a stretcher. The Dog growled at the man and barked three times, a bone-chilling sound that nearly made the aids drop their cargo.

"No, dog, _whist!_" Watson ordered as if it were one of his own men. He reached for the beast out of instinct and rested a comforting hand on it's back. "Hush. Whist, boy, _whist._"

The Dog turned to the second aid and barked five times. More men entered, bearing more wounded. The Dog's barking only got louder.

"Whist!" Murray joined in, moving to the other side of the cot. His hand shook on the animal's shoulder. "Be silent! Hush! Whist!"

But the Dog wouldn't hush, not until the last of the men had been moved into the overcrowded room. It was never formally named, but within a week it was answering to Whist.


End file.
